


Find My Way Home (Again)

by AestuumMaris



Series: Look Away [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Discussion of Past Attempted Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is a little Shit As Is His Right, Just a whole lot of love and venting, Swearing, Victim Blaming Sucks and Y'all Need to Treat Jay Better: The Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AestuumMaris/pseuds/AestuumMaris
Summary: “I dreamed of you last night. You said ‘sorry’ and ‘good job’ and ‘come home’ and ‘I’ll respect your decision’. That’s how I figured out it was a dream."





	Find My Way Home (Again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [litnerdhood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litnerdhood/gifts).



> Well you asked for it (some more insistently than others *coughlitnerdhoodcough* and here it is! The Sequel to AngstFestGalore Feat. family feels and people actually talking to their loved ones.
> 
> Title of this series, of part one, part 2, and all chapters comes from the song Look Away by Thousand Foot Krutch, one of my favourite Jason (and Stephanie) songs.

“I dreamed of you last night. You said ‘sorry’ and ‘good job’ and ‘come home’ and ‘I’ll respect your decision’. That’s how I figured out it was a dream. I was sitting on my own headstone.” Jason twirls his gun idly. “I guess that’s why I came. I kind of wanted to, for today, and it was,” Jason pauses, breathes in, “like a sign. I wanted...” Jason presses his lips together. “Well. It’s never mattered what I wanted, has it? Or at least, not since before you put me in here.”

He kicks the grave. No need to worry about disturbing the bones—not unless he kicks hard enough to damage himself. No need to worry about disturbing the ghost—it’s already pretty fucking disturbed.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here.” Jason drags his hand, unsatisfyingly, over his helmet. He stands there, staring at his gravestone. He’d brought flowers for his mom and they were lying against her headstone in the plot next to his, a slash of blue against the overgrown grass and dead leaves piled there. As a kid, he’d believed in the finality of death; he didn’t think there was anything beyond that. But Jason is the unfortunately living proof that death is not the end, and he can’t bear leaving his mom to be lonely, if she can tell what’s happening. He doesn’t want to make her suffer worse than she already has.

He hadn’t planned on visiting his own grave—even he can only do with so many reminders of his undead status—but after his visit with his mom he’d stood up to walk away and was drawn inexorably to his own supposed final resting place. He had looked, but there was no hint of disturbed earth. He’d felt so stupid for even thinking anything would still be there—it had been three years, and there was a cover-up besides.

He just. He’d sort of hoped that he had left some sort of mark on this world, stupid as that was. Obviously, he hadn’t made a difference as a kid, and the differences he made as an adult weren’t marked with anything but conspicuous absences.

He shouldn’t have come. He’s already been here too long. Someone will be here soon, to chase him away or trap him, depending on whether Bruce is in the mood for benevolent authoritarianism or just honest dictatorship.

But maybe he wants that. He’s itching for a good fight; it’s been months since he killed the Joker and left town. And he knows that was really stupid and irresponsible, creating a power vacuum like that and not stepping in but, well. The incident.

He had to leave, if only for a little while. He would have stayed away longer—five months is nowhere near long enough for the dust to settle after _that_ debacle—but it was the day of his mother’s death. And he missed her. So he came back, fully prepared to deal with anything from a hundred copycat Jokers to the city having been moved to an entirely different universe to everyone being replaced with animal versions of themselves. Thankfully none of that happened, but at this point he thinks he might have preferred it. What he’s seen since he’s come back has been nothing so drastic but about six times more eerie. Gotham has never been peaceful; it will probably never be peaceful. But it’s holding itself less on the edge of disaster. There’s an atmosphere, almost, of something he’d almost dare to call hope. It’s terrifying. It feels wrong. The maybe-hope is so out of place in this city of death and pain and Jason is just waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it will, as it must.

But even he, certain as he is of the bleakness and evil of this city, can’t help but feel the pull of hope. He’s in desperate need of some of that.

His eyes drift down to his headstone, and his lip curls. He glares balefully at it. “At least this one says ‘son’ on it,” he mutters. He stares at it for a a few seconds longer. Or more, maybe. All he knows is one moment he’s tracing the letters of his name with his eyes, and the next he’s looking up at the soft crunch of leaves under feet.

“Hey, Little Wing,” Dick says, amiably. Cautiously. It makes Jason irritated as hell, watching him tiptoe all over the place, walking on eggshells like Jason’s gonna break at the slightest pressure.

“What do you want.”

“No need to be rude.” Dick laughs softly, gently, insincerely. “Happened to see you on the monitors and thought you might need company.”

“Ooh, baby’s first thought, big milestone,” Jason mutters. He raises his voice, even though he knows perfectly well Dick could hear him before. “It’s weird as hell that you’re still monitoring my grave. You know. Since there’s no one in it.”

“Call it sentimental.”

“I’ll call it creepy and insulting, thanks.” He glances at him, sidelong, knowing there’s no way Dick can know he’s doing it. He sneers. “Feel free to let him know.”

They sit in silence, sneaking glances at each other, unwilling to make the first move. The only sound is the whistling of the wind between the headstones and the rustling of the crisp, dead leaves.

“I just wish you hadn’t killed him,” Dick says quietly. Jason feels his blood pressure rising. “It just means he won.”

“Unbelievable. God, I hate you.” Jason grinds his teeth. “I can’t believe he accused _me_ of treating this like a game. ‘He _won_?’” He clenches his fists.

Dick’s eyes widen, and he tries to backtrack. “No, wait, listen, that’s not—”

“That’s not what you meant? Is that it? So, what did you mean? Did you mean every second that monster spent alive was a danger to the world at whole? Did you mean you recognize that he was manipulating you? Did you mean you finally figured out that it doesn’t matter who wins or who loses as long as innocents are safe? Did you ever think about how it doesn’t matter it you lose his sick game because hundreds of people have already lost their goddamn lives?” Jason’s voice breaks, and Dick catches his flailing hands, holding them firmly.

“Stop it, you know I don’t think that. You’re trying to escalate this,” Dick accuses him. He continues before Jason can get a word in. “I don’t care about him. I care about you.”

Jason snorts and looks away.

“I’m serious,” Dick says. “I was talking from my own experience, and it wasn’t relevant to yours. I’m sorry.”

This is weird. Jason crosses his arms and peeks at Dick from the corner of his eye. Dick looks torn somewhere between despair and anger. Jason closes his eyes.

“Hey,” Dick says. He waits until Jason looks at him. Jason doesn’t know how he _knows_ , but the second Jason glances over, Dick opens his mouth. “You’re right. The Joker killed hundreds; he deserved to die. You should never have had to even look at him again. I’m sorry I was unfair to you.”

“Fair.” Jason shakes his head. “Yeah.”

Dick is so clearly picking his words carefully and it’s exasperating, but Jason can’t bring himself to yell about it. It’s easy to react to Dick’s everything with fury, and they can both give as good as they get, but Jason doesn’t have the energy for a screaming, and possibly physical, fight. If Dick gets him just a little angrier, he will, but right now it just isn’t worth it.

“Look, Jay, I don’t agree with what you did. But I know why you did it and I can’t say I’m sorry that he’s gone. And you did it, it’s done, we can’t change it. We’ve just gotta move on and put him behind us. So.” He bites his lip, and Jason hates how his vulnerability shines through despite the mask, he hates looking at him and remembering having a big brother, he hates it all. Dick continues, “Can you forgive me for what I did that night?”

“You mean kidnapping me and screaming at my traumatized ass?” Dick flinches, and then his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. Ha. He’s struggling to keep his cool, and Jason takes a savage satisfaction from that. Talking about his issues in any detail will always suck, but when he can weaponize it—that makes up for it.

Dick rallies. “Yes. And also for refusing to listen to you, and blaming you for things beyond your control. And for siccing Bruce on you.” His mouth twists up in a little smirk.

Jason chuckles roughly. “Pretty sure you can’t take credit for that one, Dickie.”

Dick chuckles, too. “Yeah. Probably not.” They sit in silence for a few moments again, before Dick breaks it. “You don’t have to forgive me, or do anything you aren’t comfortable with. I just. I wanted to let you know I regret it, and it won’t happen again. Ever. I swear.”

Jason brings his hand up halfway to his helmet, clenches it, and returns it to the ground. He blinks hard instead. He can’t think of anything to say. Damn Dick for doing this; he prefers him angry and sharp and Bruce-like.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Now go away, you frickin sap.”

“One more thing, though,” Dick says.

“What.”

Dick studies him carefully, sweeping his eyes critically up and down Jason’s body. Jason has never been more grateful for the cover of bulky, black kevlar and reinforced fabric. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

Jason tenses. “I told you that was a _mistake_. Piss off, Dickhead.”

“I’m just trying to—” Dick cuts himself off and huffs. “I guess you’re fine,” he says instead, with a laugh, but Jason can hear the hint of concern lurking in his voice, and he turns fully to glare at him.

Dick smiles. “I’ll see you around, Little Wing,” he says, and raps sharply on Jason’s helmet. Jason jerks back.

“What the hell,” he shouts, but Dick’s already gone and, oh, Jason _hates_ him, the asshole.

Jason grumbles to himself as he rearranges his legs more comfortably. He can’t bring himself to move, and he’s already braved the bat-checkup. He’s just so exhausted right now. He’s earned this rest, and he doubts anyone else is going to bother him for a while. He lets his eyes drift shut, losing himself in his thoughts.

“You know, Mom,” he says quietly, “you ain’t gotta worry about me, okay? I’m doing alright. Everything’s alright.”

He wonders, not for the first time, what life would have been like if his mom had lived. Would he have still died so early? He snorts bitterly. Yeah, probably. He’s been a trouble magnet his whole life; if his mom had lived, something would have still happened. Maybe he’d be taking care of her, and he’d still steal some tires, but he wouldn’t be adopted, so he’d be back on the streets. Maybe he’d have joined up with one of the rogue’s gangs. Maybe he’d have grown up to be nothing more than one of the thugs the Bats knock out every night. His upper lip curls in distaste. So, nothing would have changed, in the end. Dead to the world, nothing to Batman.

But at least in this life he can make a difference. At least in this life he can take out some assholes worse than him before he goes.

“Jason.”

Jason shoots to his feet, eyes opening. His guns are already brandished before he even knows who to shoot at, and he’s disarmed a second before he can even register tall, dark, and scowly.

“Ow, shit, lemme go.” Jason struggles— _lightly_ , he doesn’t want to dislocate his arms. “Let me go!”

Bruce releases him, and the guns clatter to the ground. Jason shakes his hands out. “Irresponsible,” he grumbles at Batman, “dropping them like that, they could have gone off, you asshole.”

“The safety was on.”

“Oh, well,  if the safety was on,” Jason mocks. “No one’s ever died handling a gun with the safety on, after all. Grow up.”

Batman raises an eyebrow. Jason can’t see it, but he knows it’s there; there’s an unmistakeable flavour to the silence. Jason would usually interject here. Instead, he waits. “You modified them yourself, reinforced them, and added two failsafes,” Batman says, finally. “Those guns will not go off accidentally.”

Jason grits his teeth. “Oh, now you trust me?”

“What are you doing, Jason,” Bruce cuts him off, evidently tired of civility.

“What are _you_ doing here? Finally got tired of creeping on me from the rooftops?”

Bruce says nothing.

Jason crosses his arms. “What, did you think I didn’t know you were there? Sure do think highly of yourself, don’t you?” Jason had only actually caught sight of Batman watching him once, but Bruce is a creature of habit, and Jason one of paranoia. “What exactly were you waiting for me to do, huh?” As soon as the words leave his mouth he winces, because he meant it as a dig but Bruce will be thinking about the...incident. He blasts his way forward before the thought can settle. “Did you grow a pair this morning and decide to come deal with your mistake?”

“What are you doing here, Jason,” Bruce grinds out again, like he’s expecting Jason to be planning a heist or a murder spree next to his mother’s grave. Screw him.

“Paying my respects,” Jason snaps.

Bruce huffs. He opens his mouth, looking ready to bulldoze Jason like he always tries to, then he stops. Reconsiders. Closes his mouth.

“To whom?”

Fury washes over Jason. “To my mother, douchebag.” Five feet from his mother’s body and Bruce doesn’t even remember her. Jason can barely think through the haze of anger and pain and sadness. Was Bruce always such an irredeemable asshole, even when Jason was a kid? Or is this one of those things Alfred was talking about, something that changed?

He hates that he has to be here, where he was buried, missing his mother, and missing his father, which is so _wrong_ because he’s standing right in front of him. Jason clenches his fists.

“Or maybe to myself. Who knows? I’m the only one who actually seems to remember myself as I was.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I am not!” Jason can’t even bring himself to regret the childishness of his retort. “How do you remember me? Huh? You put a shrine down in the cave to your goddamn obedient soldier, didn’t you? Isn’t that how you pay your respects to your glass case of self-indulgence?”

Bruce flinches ever so slightly, and Jason is satisfied. He turns to leave, the cemetery spoiled for him.

“I’ve been doing what you would have wanted.” Bruce’s voice is measured, careful, but lacks his usual unshakeable resolve.

Jason snarls. “Just say ‘he’ and get it over with. We both know what you mean.”

“You and he are the same, Jason,” Batman says severely. “I’m talking about you when you were—”

“What? Better? Alive? A hero? A _child_?” Jason snorts. “So, what, you think I’m dishonouring my own memory? Fine. Maybe. It’s no better than you deserve. My _memory_ was already dishonoured—the angry one, the reckless one, aggressive, untalented, _inferior_ —right? Right? That’s what you all called me. And you know that wasn’t true! I was _never_ the angry Robin, not compared to you and your blowup arguments with Dick. But you told all of them, all the little birdies, that little Jason died because he was reckless and angry, that he had it coming—a tailor-made cautionary tale—and now I'm here.” Jason laughs bitterly. “Maybe you spoke me into existence. Speak ill of the dead, they come back to haunt you, isn’t that how it goes? Maybe I’m nothing more than a vengeful ghost. Who you gonna call, Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Jason clenches his jaw. Bruce can get him to spill his guts and lose his composure but it’s never returned, never equal. Jason just wants to get a reaction, some sort of _proof_ that—

No. He can’t think about that. Bruce threw away Jason’s love long ago. He has none left. A jolt of pain runs through him, and he almost sits down, but he refuses to show weakness.

“This is your problem,” he snarls, as though Bruce had done anything other than sit there like a goddamn gargoyle. In for a penny. He might as well see this through. “No matter what you preach, the pretty words you spew, you’ll still stick to the guns you used to shoot me.” He laughs viciously. “Or the batarangs to cut me.”

And that’s not fair, he knows, he reviewed his security tapes, he saw Bruce’s reaction to that scar that night, but Jason has never seen much point in the fair, only the just. “You know, last time we had our nice little heart to heart, Alfred filled me in on just how much it hurt you when I died, how you changed, how it broke your heart.” He spits the words, mocking, caustic, acid burning through them. “Who cares? Why do you all _always_ ask me to care about how much _my_ death hurt _you_? Why? How can you all manage to be so fucking myopic? Why do your feelings matter more than my life, why did the Joker’s life matter more than my death, _why_ —” Jason’s words cut off as he chokes. Bruce reaches out with one large, gauntleted hand, and Jason jerks back. “No, back off, shut up, I don’t want your pity, old man.” He bares his teeth and is at once grateful for and resentful of his helmet.  Bruce hasn’t moved other than to snatch his hand back like he thinks Jason’s gonna bite it off or something.

He just might, helmet or not.

Hatred for that damn cowl burns through his veins, and he moves without even thinking. Bruce stands still and lets him pull it off. They stare at each other, Bruce with his cowl off, Jason with his helmet on, reminiscent of another stand off.

They stand in silence, alert, tense. They give up no ground, but neither do they advance. Jason is breathing hard, and he hates how shaky and out of it he feels; normally he’d be regulating his breathing.

But well, normally he’d also be regulating his words.

Another, worse shock of pain runs through him, and he slumps back, slightly, casually, against his headstone. It should have looked unremarkable.

Unfortunately, Bruce is the worst.

He closes the distance between them and takes hold of Jason, oh so gently. Jason burns under his hands, and jerks back, but he can’t break the hold.

Bruce says nothing, just pats him down, gently, moving his limbs to check for injury.

“Get off,” Jason growls, yanking away again, but weakly. Bruce ignores him. “Stop touching me, I’m f-fine.” He curses himself for the stutter. Bruce stops moving, stares at him.

“Take off your helmet.”

“Make me.”

“Now,” Bruce snaps, and Jason’s opened the locking mechanisms on his helmet before he even registers that his hands have moved. He freezes, but Bruce takes no notice of Jason’s malfunction and pulls his helmet off quickly.

“Jason.” The sound is harsh, and Jason bristles. He knows what Bruce sees: sweat soaked skin and hair, dark circles under his eyes, pale face, bloodshot eyes. He looks younger than he is; he’s pretty sure that looks younger than _Tim_. There are three deep gouges, half-healed, on his jaw and extending down into his collar, cuts and bruises near his hairline, and the roots of his mostly dyed white hair are showing.

He’s a mess.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, before Jason can say anything, and his voice is softer than before. An uncomfortable feeling rises in Jason’s chest.

“Leave me alone,” he says. Today—this week—the last five months have been the worst, and he doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. He doesn’t want to be interrogated to satisfy Bruce’s need to control him. He braces himself for the barrage of questions anyway. “Go away.”

“Jason, come home,” Bruce says, out of fucking nowhere. Jason jumps. He clenches his fists.

The look at each other in uncomfortable silence for a while.

“We don’t have the same home,” Jason says quietly. Bruce firms his jaw. He probably grinds his teeth too, and honestly Jason is pretty sure none of the things in his mouth are actual real teeth at this point.

Bruce unclenches his jaw and taps a quick sequence into his gauntlet.

“What are you doing?”

Bruce just grunts.

“What was that?” Jason insists, put on guard by Bruce’s mulish evasiveness. “Don’t grunt at me, you Neanderthal, what are you doing?” Jason drops the helmet and hauls himself to his feet, ignoring the weakness in his limbs and the pain in his muscles, and he draws himself to his full height, looking Bruce directly in the eyes. Bruce ignores him again, because he’s gone back to running his eyes over Jason’s battered form. Jason is about one second away from hauling off and clocking Bruce across the face, or, alternately, getting the hell out of there, when an unfortunately recognizable roar reaches his ears.

“No. No,” he says, pointing at Bruce. “I’m not getting in that car with you.”

Bruce studies him for a while. Jason steels his aching, beaten body and prepares for a fight. Bruce inhales. “Alfred would like to see you again,” he says quietly. “He misses you.

Jason closes his eyes. Damn him.

Jason takes a shuddering breath. “I...I’m still not going. I’m not about to—”

“Jason,” he says softly. “Please,” and Jason’s breath leaves his body all at once. He’d like to blame it on the blood loss and the lingering grief and the fear gas that his system maybe hasn’t purged yet, but part of it just the sheer amount of memories he _doesn’t want to remember_.

“No,” he snaps, turning away, but his feet catch on something and he falls, reflexes too slow for anything but his hands shooting up to break his fall.

It’s unnecessary, though, because Jason isn’t falling anymore. He blinks. Again.

What?

He looks down then, and sees first, his helmet. And that’s definitely what he tripped over, like a kid who forgot to put away his toys and tripped over them in the dark. Second, he sees a pair of gauntleted hands on his waist, and as he watches, the ground gets further away.

Bruce turns him over and cradles him, rotating quickly on his heel and striding off toward the exit nearest to the Batmobile. The movement feels like a helicopter takeoff he is decidedly not prepared for, and it takes all his willpower to keep his breakfast firmly inside his body.

With a groan he drops his head to Bruce’s chest. The hard, unforgiving armored chest is somehow the best thing Jason has ever felt, and he pushes his cheek against it a little more, relaxing in his father’s arms. The glare of the setting sun burns his eyes, and he closes them, feeling his breathing even out.

And then, “ _What the hell are you doing_?” Jason shouts, shooting upright. Or doing his level best to shoot upright, since Batman clamps his arms around him and holds on like a determined bulldog.

“You need help.”

“I didn’t ask you for it. Let me down. Let me down now, let me go!” Jason shouts, feeling panic rising in his chest. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. “I’m talking to you, asshole! God, no wonder your kids all end up hating you.” Bruce doesn’t respond in any noticeable way, just keeps walking. The panic boils over and Jason can’t figure out how to get free. “Let me go! Let me go, let me down, let go of me, oh my god, why won’t you ever _listen_ to me?” Jason’s voice breaks.

Bruce stops. Jason doesn’t look at him; at some point he’d squeezed his eyes shut and he can’t open them yet.

Bruce turns him slightly and sets his feet on the ground. Jason rips out of his hold and scrambles away, backing up with his eyes still shut.

“Jason,” Bruce says.

“No,” he shouts, then trips backward over a headstone.

No one catches him this time, and he tumbles and lands on his ass. He bites his tongue to avoid yelling out in pain, but he can still feel every inch of his battered body screaming out for him.

“Motherfucking goddamn shitting son of a gun,” Jason spits.

He opens his eyes and contains a violent flinch. Batman is looming over him, filling up his vision with black fabric.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, and Jason exhales in exasperation.

“Are you capable of saying anything else or is there a glitch in your programming?”

“Come home.”

“Literally only two recorded vocal tracks.”

“You aren’t healthy. Let Alfred take care of you. What happens after that is up to you. You won’t be restrained this time. You can leave if you want. After we’ve made sure your injuries are cared for. I promise.” The words are halting and stilted and measured, and Jason is sure it is taking all of Bruce’s vaunted self-control not to simply toss him over his shoulder or order him into the car.

But everything hurts, and he feels so empty and drained, too many conversations in too little time, and at this point he doesn’t know if he’ll make it back to the safe house by dawn, and he left Alfred the night after the incident and—

And he can’t bear the thought of being alone tonight. Not when his mother has been dead for years and his dad is here. Asking him to come home. Listening to what he says.

It’s a heady feeling.

He’ll let Alfred fuss a little, and he’ll pretend to sleep in a place where all eyes are on him, and then he’ll walk out in the middle of the night and find somewhere safe to sleep and they’ll all forget this happened. But tonight, he’s weak to kindness.

Jason sighs and clenches his fists. “Okay,” he says, through gritted teeth.

There’s a silence. Pointed, stunned silence, where Bruce has too much self control and self respect to ask for confirmation or to repeat what he heard, but a shocked silence all the same.

Jason glares up at him. “So? You gonna stare at me all night or are we getting a move on?”

This was a bad idea. He regrets agreeing, he shouldn’t have done it, it’s that damn fear gas that hasn’t quite left his system playing on all the stupid things he knows are true, and Bruce is being delicate with him because of the incident. He doesn’t mean it, Jason knows.

But he wants him to mean it.

No he doesn’t. Bruce can get screwed.

Jason hasn’t broken eye contact with Bruce, and is staring him down from his position five feet below him. He maintains the eye contact even as he desperately wishes to drop his face in his hands and squeeze his rebellious and conflicting thoughts back into the remotest corners of his brain.

“Actually, you know what? I changed my mind.” Jason bites back a groan as he pushes himself to his feet. Again. Ugh. He resolves firmly to keep his feet and nothing else on the ground. “I’ll see you around, old man.” A bitter smile twists his mouth. “Or maybe not.”

“What?” Suddenly Bruce is in his personal space again, cradling his face, and staring into his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” He demands.

Jason has no idea what to do with that, and his brain works desperately to try to figure out exactly what—oh.

Fucking Bruce.

“That is not what I meant,” Jason grinds the words out angrily. God, they’ll never let this go, will they? “I’m not fucking suicidal.”

“You tried to commit suicide.” _That’s the definition of suicidal_ goes unspoken but Jason can see it in Bruce’s beady, smug little eyes.

“If I had really tried, I would have succeeded,” Jason snaps.

“You would have if I hadn’t been there,” Bruce growls back.

“Oh, are you psychic now? Can you see alternate timelines? No? Then shut the hell up.”

“I will not lose you again.”

“You don’t have me,” Jason says coldly.

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a step back. Not a big one, but just enough to alleviate Jason’s discomfort.

“I—”

“I know,” Bruce says. Jason raises an eyebrow. Bruce tends not to know a lot of things if they don't have anything to do with cases, so he thinks he can be forgiven his skepticism. “I know I don’t have you,” Bruce says, very quietly. “I haven’t been fair to you.”

Jason clenches his jaw. There’s that word again.

Everything would be easier if the others could just realize that nothing is fair. That fairness doesn’t matter, that life has never been fair. He’s known that as long as he can remember, but Bruce has had the privilege to continue in this delusion that people get what they deserve, that the universe conspires to treat people fairly.

It’s bullshit.

“I’ve never wanted you to be fair to me,” Jason returns, even quieter. _It’s not fair to repay attempted thievery with a home. It’s not fair to repay your son stealing your credit cards and running away from home with help._ Out loud, he says, “You’ve never been fair to me, Bruce.” _But I miss the days when you were kind_.

“Jason. Let me help you now. Let Alfred take care of you. Just for the night. Come home. Please.” It’s said hopelessly, a clear last-ditch effort.

Jason has a vicious desire to tell him no, to disappoint him like he deserves.

But he said please, twice in one night. Bruce will make his report, complete with a list of injuries. Alfred will worry. And after his talk with Dick—well.

Maybe he’s been infected with a little bit of Gotham’s leftover hope.

He brushes past Batman and marches painstakingly to the exit. He makes it to Batmobile and waits.

A few minutes later, Bruce approaches, wearing the cowl again. He spots Jason and freezes.

Jason tilts his head. “Are you gonna wait around for me to change my mind again?” He threatens.

Bruce starts walking again, unhurried, but Jason sees his hands flex at his sides, just once, and notices that he’s walking straighter than before. The door opens before Bruce takes a few more steps.

“Get in,” Bruce orders. Jason is severely tempted to walk away, but he doesn’t. He’s committed now. Instead, he tosses a searing glare at Bruce and climbs into the car.

He groans as he buckles himself in. How can Bruce be comfortable on these concrete slabs he calls seats? How can Robin?

“I see you’ve finally decided to graduate from masochist to flagellant,” he says to Bruce. Bruce says nothing. Jason scoffs into the silence. Perhaps Jason has made Bruce use up all his words for the day.

He reviews their conversation. Possibly all his words for a month.

He squirms, silently, trying to get comfortable against these _awful_ seats _._ Seriously, what the hell, what’s the point of being richer than Midas if you don’t use the money to make life better? Like, say, modifying your car for more comfort, not _less_.

Bruce is a sick man. Jason promptly tells him so.

Bruce does not respond.

Well, now it’s a challenge. And even if it wasn’t such a joy to break Batman’s impressive silence, it would be a joy just to fuck with him.

And he will be fucking with him.

Jason laughs, just slightly, as if to himself. He pulls out what he likes to call his super phone, unlocks it, opens his contacts, and chooses one. He breaks out into a huge grin and beams at the phone, covering his mouth. He types out a quick message, sends it and leans back. Then he glances at Batman and the smile drops from his face quickly, and he forces his expression to be blank.

But, like. Suspiciously blank.

Bruce doesn’t take the bait. That’s okay. Jason has at least twenty minutes to break him. His phone chimes, and Bruce twitches. Good. Phase one complete: Bruce knows he _actually_ texted someone and smiled like a fool.

 _what in the 9 circles of fresh hell r u talking about_ is written clearly on his phone. Jason snorts, but he drops his smirk in a second. This time he pointedly doesn’t look at Bruce.

 _I’m screwing with Batman, are you in or not?_ Jason already knows what the answer will be before it comes.

 _hell yeah_ _sign me tf up!!!_

Jason looks out the window and lets just a corner of his mouth twitch up. He goes to his settings and makes sure to turn his speaker settings down.

His phone rings. He hangs up.

It rings again. He hangs up again.

A third time. It’s the charm. Bruce is staring determinedly at the road and studiously pretending not to pay attention to Jason.

 _Gotcha_ , Jason thinks, and he picks up.

“Hey,” he says, pitching his voice softly, quietly, fondly, “this isn’t really a good time.”

“Yeah, I know, I just wanted to hear your voice. Are you home?”

“I’m not going home tonight, babe. Can I call you tomorrow instead?”

“Are you with him?” _Can he hear me_ is the actual question. Jason glances over at Bruce. Better not risk it.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later, then. Love you.”

Jason breaks out into a huge, mad grin. If Bruce _can_ hear, that was a master stroke. “You too.” And time for the straw that will break the bat’s back. “Say hi to Oliver and Hal for me, okay?”

Bruce’s hands clench on the steering wheel. He shoots an affronted glance toward Jason, who masterfully pretends not to notice. If his drama teacher could see him now, he reflects, the same way he’s done every time he’s told a lie since taking drama class.

“What makes you think I’m going to see them?”

Jason shrugs, despite the fact that body language translates badly over the phone. “You’ll see one of ‘em sooner or later, and the other one is gonna tumble in on his tail.”

“Team GreenGreen for the win.”

Jason huffs a gentle little laugh. “Team GreenGreen all the way. Good night.”

“Night, Jason.”

He hangs up. Silence. Bruce’s hands are still clenched though, so either he bought it or he saw through so it easily it made him mad. Either way, phase two is complete, and it won’t take much more to break him.

_he take the bait??_

Jason looks out the window in order to catch Bruce’s reflection. His jaw is working. Jason hides a grin in his hand and texts back. _He will._

_did you just sicc overprotective batdad on me_

_You knew what you were getting into._

_well yah but i didn’t think he’d believe you?? so much for World’s Greatest Detective_ _™_

“Queen and Jordan.” Bruce says flatly. _Score_. Point Jason.

He _knew_ that would break him.

Jason gives him an equally flat look and says nothing.

They sit in silence. No one wins the quiet game against Batman.

Good thing that’s not what Jason’s playing.

Three, two, one. Like he can’t contain it, Jason blurts, “Since when do you care who I talk to, huh?” Then, under his breath. “Figured you’d be glad it’s someone on your underwear squad.”

“You’re too young to be dating.”

Jason gapes at him. He turns his entire body toward Bruce in order to emphasize his, surprisingly genuine, shock. “I am _what_ now?”

Bruce says nothing.

“Did you just tell _me_ I’m too young to be dating when Dick and Tim started at, like, sixteen? Did you just say that to me? Oh my God.”

Jason listens to the sweet pained silence and glories in the almost assured trip to the dentist Bruce will have to take after this. They say nothing more until the Batmobile pulls to a smooth stop in the cave. “Not it has anything to do with you, but _I_ am in love. And the lucky man...is none of your business.”

With that declaration, he vaults out of the Batmobile. And stumbles on his triumphant landing, pain shooting up through his legs and spreading throughout his body to create pulsing agony. Jason throws an arm out to brace himself against the Batmobile.

A hand is laid on the back of his neck. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jason snaps through gritted teeth. He shakes the hand off and turns. Alfred is standing in front of him. He smiles with his teeth still clenched. It can’t look inviting, but he still receives a smile in return. “Hey, Alfred.” Alfred gestures toward the medical bench, and Jason starts walking.

“Welcome home, Master Jason. What have you done to yourself?”

“That’s what I love ‘bout you, Al. You’re so good at small talk.”

“Indeed. Sit.” Jason sits. Alfred continues, “Your injuries, please, in order from most to least pressing.”

“Uh,” Jason stalls. “I got tranqed earlier. Not sure what was in there. Contusions, abrasions, lacerations, all on my face. Electrical burns to my legs and arms, and um. Some as yet unidentified damage to my left ankle.” He stops.

Alfred looks unimpressed. “What else?” He seems to have given up on most to least pressing, just like Jason.

“Cracked ribs. Not sure how many. Possible concussion, probably not serious. And,” he hesitates, “residual fear gas. Maybe. I’ve already administered the antidote, I’m just jittery.” He turns his head as Bruce lumbers up behind him. They look at each other for a while, Bruce scanning him as though he’ll be able to catalogue each and every one of his injuries just by looking at him.

As though Jason hasn’t learned to hide those kinds of tells.

Alfred directs him behind a screen to change into a medical gown. He comes back out, carrying his neatly folded clothes in a stack. Bruce hasn’t moved from his spot behind the medical bench. Jason climbs back up, refusing to be cowed.

“Give me your phone.” Bruce demands.

“What? No, get your own. You’re a billionaire; you can afford it. You gotta learn to share with others, Bruce.”

Bruce extends his hand. Jason bats it away. Bruce raises an eyebrow. Jason raises both of his.

Bruce turns to Alfred. “Jason has a boyfriend.” He says it with a straight face, as though The Batman in full regalia saying “boyfriend” isn’t absolutely ludicrous.

“Bruce, oh my God! What are you, twelve?” Fucking with Bruce has come back to bite him in the ass. He should come clean before this goes too far. He doesn’t want Alfred to get involved, which Bruce is counting on, so he should just admit that he was messing with Bruce.

But that is the coward’s way, and Jason is not a coward.

“Alfred, I have the utmost respect for you, and I am so sorry that you had to raise such a nosy control freak.”

“Your sympathy is appreciated, Master Jason.”

Bruce grumbles something, then turns and stalks off to the Batcomputer. Alfred continues, “Now what’s this about your young man?”

“Alfie,” Jason whines. Alfred pats him consolingly on the shoulder.

“Your father is just looking out for you. I did the same for him.”

“Before or after the he created ‘Bruce Wayne, playboy extraordinaire?’”

Alfred grimaces. “Both, though I’m afraid he has never been too keen on listening to my advice. You’re quite like your father.”

He is not. He opens his mouth to deny the accusation—the insult!—when he hears a sharp inhale from the computer.

He turns and sees Bruce messing with his phone.

“What the hell?” When did he get that. He goes to check his pocket like an idiot before registering that he is wearing a medical gown. “Give that back.” He gets up and marches over to Batman, He grabs the phone and cradles it to his chest, looking at the screen. It looks like he went directly to the recent calls.

Jason breathes a sigh of relief. Bruce didn’t check the texts.

He’s made his bed and he is comfortably lying in it, all tucked in and everything. He’s sticking to this story if it kills him.

“Harper.” Bruce grinds the word out from behind his clenched teeth, and Jason bristles.

“Yeah? So what?”

“He’s too old for you.”

“Excuse me?” Jason’s voice jumps an octave, but he’s pretty sure he’s never been more offended in his life, and he’s not even really dating Roy Harper. “Maybe you wouldn’t feel the age difference so keenly if you hadn’t let me _die_ and lose over a year of my life!”

The cave falls silent.

Some day he’s going to lose this leverage. Until then, the least he deserves is to get some mileage out of it.

“My relationships are none of your business, old man,” Jason says. He can’t believe Bruce has managed to make him angry over something that doesn’t even exist, but that’s just typical.

“Master Jason,” Alfred says, severely, holding a syringe in a very obviously threatening manner, “you have unspecified damage in every part of your body. Sit. Down.”

Jason sits down. On the floor.

He shoots Bruce his most undeniably bratty look. Alfred lays a hand on his shoulder, and he looks into Alfred’s eyes.

He stands back up. As he heads back to the bench, he yells at Bruce, “If you have a problem with who I spend my time with, take it up with Oliver.”

If he’s going down, he’s taking Harper with him.

His parting shot has opened the seventh seal, and there’s silence in the Batcave for half an hour as Alfred tends to Jason’s injuries.

He spends most of his time alternating between fidgeting and staring at that glass case.

At least he can’t read that plaque from this distance.

Seeing the pristine costume that no longer fits him, in more ways than one, burns him. He hates the reminder of what he used to be. More than that, he hates the reminder of the symbol his death became. Bruce had no right to do that. The entire thing makes him feel sick.

His field of vision is suddenly filled with black, and he looks up, tensing. He knows what Bruce is going to say. They’re in his home court; he has the advantage. He’s going to bring up the Joker. Jason braces himself for the fight to end all fights and, possibly, relationships. He clenches his fists and opens his mouth. The best defense is a good offense.

Bruce reaches out and ruffles his hair.

What.

“I’m glad you’re okay. I’m glad you’re home, Jay-lad.”

Holy. Shit.

This is too much, abort, abort.

Jason shoots to his feet and backs away.

“Have you been body-snatched?” He demands. Stupid. The body-snatcher isn’t going to say yes. “Alfred, help!”

Once Alfred, sainted Alfred, has sufficiently—but not totally—laid Jason’s fears to rest, he sends him upstairs on crutches and an elevator, wrapped in bandages, slimy with medicinal ointments, and waiting on the pain meds to kick in. He hobbles out of the elevator and is swiftly ushered into a guest room. Alfred leaves.

Jason stays standing where he is for a long time. He stares at the blank, impersonal walls before and around him.

How has this day spun so wildly out of control? How did he even get here?

Well, he knows how he got  here physically, but that’s not what he’s thinking about. Jason agreed to stay here overnight. He swallows. He’ll do his best, he doesn’t want to break his promise—not now, when he and Dick are at a tenuous peace for the first time in years, not when Alfred has been so gentle, not when Bruce is making an effort and Jason doesn’t know how to handle it.

But this house...he’s sure it would be unbearable if he were in the mausoleum that is his old room, but it’s hard to remember that as the empty, pristine, soulless room presses in on him. To be at once in the house and not truly a part of it—it’s a little bit too much of a heavy-handed metaphor for his comfort.

A quick, firm knock.

Jason turns to see Bruce hovering in the doorway, experience in handling Bruce showing him that he is far less comfortable than his knock suggested.

“What do you want?” He says, slipping into their typical confrontational language.

He’s still not one hundred percent convinced that Bruce is entirely in possession of all his faculties.

Or not dying.

“Supper’s ready.”

Jason nods. “I’ll be down.”

They share a look.

Bruce leaves. Jason sighs.

Looks like they’re leaving today’s conversations for another time.

If Jason has his way, they’ll never speak of it again.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on my writing tumblr! commandthetides.tumblr.com


End file.
